ficlet: dawn PAUSEd // Harry, Draco // G
First post on this wonderful community. I'm sorry for my delayed response to underlucius' invite-post but school is my killer. Once again, a bigbig 'thank you' :)
[title] dawn PAUSEd (or just another class of arithmancy)
[artist] deora_mystic
[summary] Harry and Draco, sitting on the edge of the world, d-y-i-n-g.
[ratings/warnings] G~PG. A pretty sad fic (it probably doesn't come off as sad as it was in my mind at the time) and, quite wtf.
[length] ~580 words.
[notes] Written for hecatesknickers' seasons&senses challenge. The prompt was Gen; Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter; Sight; Autumn; Rain, Post-War. Unbeta'd.
[feedback] is very much appreciated :)
[*]
“I hate autumn so much. There’s something akin to drowning in the muffled sound of idle rain, marching on your world… Who the heck do they think they are?”
[*]
It doesn’t rain, but the air is pregnant with the threat of their deaths or someone else’s sorrow. So heavy, he fears it might tear in the middle with the sound of raw flesh and pour down, spill poison on their heads.
Potter wouldn’t know.
[*]
“Why are you still here?”
“Where else could I be?”
“You realize you’re coming down with the oh, typical Malfoy gloom?”
“You should have told me it’s catching…”
“And what? Miss all this fun?”
[*]
It doesn’t rain but it should, oh yes, it should. All he can see are curtains of darkness tiptoeing on the endless alley, whispering and cackling in their thick thick darkness. He’s not afraid but he should, oh yes, he should be. The mute darkness is like fond memories of that dead yesterday and strangled today and he knows he fears those, the yesterday and the today, and he knows he’s trapped in between them, like dawn PAUSEd.
Potter’s face is a study of decay; he’s still and waiting. He likes it here and would never leave, if it weren’t for Draco to push him away every evening. Go away, night is falling and they’re coming. Go. Go away.
Potter’s still alive but he shouldn’t, oh no, he shouldn’t be.
[*]
It’s sick morbidity that eases Draco’s demons, helps him forget and always allow Potter to come back. He thinks it makes sense, interest + decay = morbidity, so he doesn’t stop Potter, he’s a grown-up man, after all, (although his gestures are still seventeen years old) and he can’t stop him.
Days after days crawl and get stuck on the time drain, (sometimes drip seconds, sometimes they drip months) and they sit on the porch of Florean Fortesque's Ice-Cream Parlour, watching emptiness grow stale.
“Why do you still come here?”
“Where else could I go?”
[*]
Once upon a time, the alley lived - larger-than-life itself, Diagon Alley was, and Draco sometimes thinks, in the privacy of his not-so-sane mind, that destroying this last refuge is a big sign of illiteracy and primitiveness on Voldemort’s account.
[*]
He’s glad they’re the only ones left to witness death STOPping in this place, because he’s already seen too much to care and because Harry can’t see at all.
“I won’t be here tomorrow.”
He’s quiet for the first time, but he can see him turning his face in a random direction, as if watching dusk starting to peel off the sky, as if he could actually see it crumble.
“So… you should really go somewhere else,” and Draco plans to elope with his shadow outside, into the real world, where time IS for sure, unlike here, where everything is under a big question mark.
[*]
When it rains, all the remaining colours drain out of the alley, but the curtains of dark ease up, just a little bit. It’s less painful to breathe in and out because the blocks of air soften up. He knows time is still on PAUSE but, then again, he’s lost his idealism two eyes (and a world of love) ago.
He’s come here one last time because he wants to say goodbye to Draco - he plans to bury himself with his shadow inside, underneath the real world, under a small comma. He never knew Draco’s hand on his face would feel like rain,
[*]
[title] dawn PAUSEd (or just another class of arithmancy)
[artist] deora_mystic
[summary] Harry and Draco, sitting on the edge of the world, d-y-i-n-g.
[ratings/warnings] G~PG. A pretty sad fic (it probably doesn't come off as sad as it was in my mind at the time) and, quite wtf.
[length] ~580 words.
[notes] Written for hecatesknickers' seasons&senses challenge. The prompt was Gen; Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter; Sight; Autumn; Rain, Post-War. Unbeta'd.
[feedback] is very much appreciated :)
[*]
“I hate autumn so much. There’s something akin to drowning in the muffled sound of idle rain, marching on your world… Who the heck do they think they are?”
[*]
It doesn’t rain, but the air is pregnant with the threat of their deaths or someone else’s sorrow. So heavy, he fears it might tear in the middle with the sound of raw flesh and pour down, spill poison on their heads.
Potter wouldn’t know.
[*]
“Why are you still here?”
“Where else could I be?”
“You realize you’re coming down with the oh, typical Malfoy gloom?”
“You should have told me it’s catching…”
“And what? Miss all this fun?”
[*]
It doesn’t rain but it should, oh yes, it should. All he can see are curtains of darkness tiptoeing on the endless alley, whispering and cackling in their thick thick darkness. He’s not afraid but he should, oh yes, he should be. The mute darkness is like fond memories of that dead yesterday and strangled today and he knows he fears those, the yesterday and the today, and he knows he’s trapped in between them, like dawn PAUSEd.
Potter’s face is a study of decay; he’s still and waiting. He likes it here and would never leave, if it weren’t for Draco to push him away every evening. Go away, night is falling and they’re coming. Go. Go away.
Potter’s still alive but he shouldn’t, oh no, he shouldn’t be.
[*]
It’s sick morbidity that eases Draco’s demons, helps him forget and always allow Potter to come back. He thinks it makes sense, interest + decay = morbidity, so he doesn’t stop Potter, he’s a grown-up man, after all, (although his gestures are still seventeen years old) and he can’t stop him.
Days after days crawl and get stuck on the time drain, (sometimes drip seconds, sometimes they drip months) and they sit on the porch of Florean Fortesque's Ice-Cream Parlour, watching emptiness grow stale.
“Why do you still come here?”
“Where else could I go?”
[*]
Once upon a time, the alley lived - larger-than-life itself, Diagon Alley was, and Draco sometimes thinks, in the privacy of his not-so-sane mind, that destroying this last refuge is a big sign of illiteracy and primitiveness on Voldemort’s account.
[*]
He’s glad they’re the only ones left to witness death STOPping in this place, because he’s already seen too much to care and because Harry can’t see at all.
“I won’t be here tomorrow.”
He’s quiet for the first time, but he can see him turning his face in a random direction, as if watching dusk starting to peel off the sky, as if he could actually see it crumble.
“So… you should really go somewhere else,” and Draco plans to elope with his shadow outside, into the real world, where time IS for sure, unlike here, where everything is under a big question mark.
[*]
When it rains, all the remaining colours drain out of the alley, but the curtains of dark ease up, just a little bit. It’s less painful to breathe in and out because the blocks of air soften up. He knows time is still on PAUSE but, then again, he’s lost his idealism two eyes (and a world of love) ago.
He’s come here one last time because he wants to say goodbye to Draco - he plans to bury himself with his shadow inside, underneath the real world, under a small comma. He never knew Draco’s hand on his face would feel like rain,
[*]